


Five Ways Eve and Roarke Didn't Meet

by Aishuu



Category: In Death - J. D. Robb
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Community: 100fandomhell, F/M, Romance, The Livejournal exodus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aishuu/pseuds/Aishuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In other universes, they may have met like this – but fate is such that no matter the circumstances, they would have inevitably come to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Eve and Roarke Didn't Meet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dqbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dqbunny).



1.

The alleys of Dublin are as familiar to him as the back of his hands, but he moves through the back streets of Dallas thinking that all hells have something in common. The stench, he decides almost dispassionately, may be comprised of a different mixture, but it's the kind that will permeate clothes and linger on skin.

He's managed to lift four wallets that evening, a good haul that will provide him with enough spending money to cover his needs, and some investment capital. Roarke is a smart thief, and doesn't believe in living day-to-day. Planning, he knows, is the way to get out from the bottom and climb on top. And for now that means playing by the rules, and returning to his foster family. He ditches the wallets and plastic, pocketing only the untraceable credits.

He's always resented the American foster care system, ever since his old man dumped him in Dallas, but Roarke has unfortunately become too familiar with it. A part of him wonders if his old man was murdered – he's not sure if he wants this to be true or not. He wants to kill Patrick Roarke with his own hands, but having proof the old man was out of his life for good would be a good consolation prizes.

Roarke knows the system, knows how to play it. At fifteen, he recognizes the benefits of having food provided and a roof over his head. He's good at taking a blow, but he's lucked out this time. His current foster parents aren't abusive, just indifferent. His situation could be a lot worse. As long as he reports in by curfew and doesn't get into any fights at school – or at least ones that get reported.

But it's hard, so very hard, for him to maintain a tight leash on his impossible temper. He knows that blowing up could completely screw over his chances of building the world he dreams of. He hasn't figured out – yet – what his method to take control will be, but he knows that someday, he will own whatever he wants.

He slouches back to the flop – he can't think of it as a home – with ten minutes to spare. He smiles at his foster mother as he enters, knowing that a little extra charm never goes to waste. "Good evening, ma'am," he says, letting the Irish color his words. Women just adore his accent.

She's a woman in her mid-forties who probably once actually believed in the foster system. Nowadays, she's only in it for the professional mother status. But every now and then, she offers a glimpse that makes him wish he'd been placed in her care twenty years ago, back when she gave a damn. "We've got a new girl," she tells him. "Play it cool, okay?"

He nods, getting her drift. He's been in the system for two years, and knows the drill. If he'd being warned off a girl, there was likely sexual abuse involved. While Roarke would never lay a finger on an unwilling partner, he's gaining the physique of a powerful man. He wonders what the hell CPS was thinking, putting the girl in a home with three teenage boys. "I'll keep an eye out," he promises. He wouldn't trust his roommate with a pet fish, much less a vulnerable girl.

"You're a good kid, Roarke," his foster-mother says, offering him a tired smile.

He gives her a cheerful salute, unable to avoid thinking of the irony. He has 931 credits which he stole earlier in the evening in his pocket.

He steps out onto the porch to indulge in an herbal. He could be doing worse, but cigarettes still carry the cache of elegance – plus the fact the coppers aren't going to hunt him down for indulging. Pulling out his lighter – again, not sanctioned but such a minor breach that no one's going to come down on him – he lights up.

"Who are you?" a voice demands in a straightforward fashion.

He looked over to see a girl leaning out the window, eying him. He doesn't sense fear in her – just wariness.

"I'm Roarke," he tells her, stepping to the edge of the porch so he can reach her. He offers her the cigarette, which she takes in her too-thin fingers. "What's your name, kid?"

Her eyes flash, and he decides she probably doesn't need protection from his roomie – if anything, he should warn Paolo to take care if he values his family jewels. "I'm Dallas," she tells him.

And she is, he can't help thinking. Like this brave new world he's been abandoned in, Roarke can see all the hope for the future, combined with the treachery of the unknown, in her face.

 

2.

Lieutenant Roarke ignores the beige carpets as he follows an aide through the twisted corridors of Eden Enterprises.

He's heard stories about Eve Dallas, the brilliant and utterly ruthless head of one of the most valuable corporations on or off world. She came from nowhere, but has quickly made her mark on the business world. She's known for being reclusive and rude, not caring about what the status quo is. Some of what she's done is questionable, but she's never crossed the line into open rule-breaking.

But she's brilliant and filthy rich, so society allows her peccadilloes. With the exception of murder, Roarke reminds himself. Right now she's the prime suspect in the murder of Holden DeBlass, a high-class LC that was found dead with three bullets through his head. The investigation is starting to come into focus, and Roarke isn't going to back away from some lady just because she has enough money to buy the police department, a dozen times over.

Eve Dallas' profile fit the violence of the scene, and she was a licensed gun collector. Her records have been buried deep, but not deep enough. Abused child, possible rape victim, and possible murderer – likely self-defense – since she'd been found on the streets of Dallas, covered in blood. Roarke knew from experience that after a person killed once, it became easier to compound the sin by crossing the line again.

It still didn't excuse her. Murder was never, ever right.

Roarke didn't want to continue thinking down that path, because he too bore the blood of his enemies on his hands. But when he had come to this country, he had sworn to make amends for what he had done. His sense of justice – the cosmic balancing of the scales – required no less.

The aide opens the door, gesturing for him to enter. He blinks as he steps through into an office that is more about practicality than aesthetics. Not exactly the kind of place one of the wealthiest CEOs in the world is expected to use. The woman isn't what he was expecting, either. Instead of high-fashion clothes, she wears fitted jeans and a drab, although comfortable looking, brown shirt. Her hair is cropped in a non-nonsense fashion, and she's wearing no makeup.

She's still beautiful, he thinks. He has to suppress a rather unprofessional urge to tell her so.

She's not the kind of woman who suppresses any of what she thinks. "What the hell are you doing in my office?" she asks, not even bothering to look away from her computer screen. "I don't have time to deal with you."

"We can either talk here, or down at the station," he replies. "It's not the kind of first date I like, but I'm sure we'd enjoy the drive down there."

She growls, and slams her computer screen into hibernation. "Fine," she says, looking up. She has cop's eyes, he can't help thinking, sherry-colored and shrewd, immediately dissecting him. For a second her breath hitches, and he's aware that she's checking him out – against her will. She slams down on that surge of attraction with admirable speed. "Who are you?"

He flashes his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Roarke, with the NYPSD."

"Just Roarke?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Just Roarke," he answers.

"Whatever. So 'just Roarke,' mind telling me why you're in my office instead of protecting the upstanding citizens of the city?" She makes no move to welcome him, and he's aware she's annoyed.

He can tell any kind of prevarication is only going to earn him more scorn, so he decides to just spit out the truth and watch her reactions. "I'm investigating the murder of Holden DeBlass – and your name's come up," he replies coolly.

"If I was going to kill someone, I definitely wouldn't leave a fucking trail to my front door, Detective," she tells him.

"You're defensive, Ms. Dallas," he says, walking over and leaning against the edge of her desk. She doesn't have any chairs for visitors – he gets the feeling she doesn't want anyone to make themselves comfortable.

"Just Dallas," she snaps, and it's an ingrained reaction. "And you wouldn't be here unless you suspected me of something."

"Should I?"

There's a flash of those eyes, and she stands, leaning forward over the desk so their faces are less than a foot apart. He's a dangerous man, but he recognizes a fellow predator when he sees one. "If I was going to kill someone, it wouldn't be some pitiful soul like Holden DeBlass. There's far more people that would rate the top of my hit list – but if I killed everyone I didn't like, the world would be pretty empty."

And he can't help believe her. She strikes him as a woman who doesn't lie, not even to herself. But procedures must be followed, and he can't set her aside as a suspect without going down all the avenues... which strangely, he can't help but be grateful for. He'll have an excuse to be in her life for the next several days, at least.

"Then you won't mind answering a few questions, will you?" Like her phone number, and what her favorite positions in bed are. It's a highly unprofessional thought, but Roarke can't help but think it inevitable. This woman was made for _him._

 

3.

Dallas was ready to punch out the next incompetent who crossed her path. The Purity case was driving her mad, and she was worried about what the ultimate repercussions of what would happen. The hackers were some of the best EDD had come across, and Feeney and McNab were both tied up in a different project that had priority over hers. Feeney had promised her the tech he was sending would be able to handle it.

"He's got magic hands, Dallas," Feeney told her in a fashion that might have been soothing to many people, but only served to irritate her even more.

Which might have been Feeney's intent. He was still angry about the four in the morning call she'd placed, waking him and his wife up.

She paced her tiny office, barely three feet each way, and tried to keep her seething at a manageable level. The Purity Seekers were some of the scariest people she'd ever tried to track down; it might be wiser to pass the case off to the feds since it was terrorism, but she'd been the one to stand over the bodies. They were her responsibility.

The tech isn't as prompt as she would like, since she would have liked to see him there yesterday. Five minutes, ten minutes, and finally there's a knock on the door announcing he's arrived. "You needed a tech?" a voice asks, and she turns to meet the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

Frisson. She feels her body tense and her mouth go dry as she stares at the man, who has a face that looks like God himself spent extra time on it, and eyes that a woman could drown in. Unlike most EDDs, he's dressed casually but professionally, in a dark outfit that emphasized his lean, powerful build. He wears an amused smile, but from the elevator eye he's giving her, he's just as attracted as she is.

"Depends if you're any good," she says, trying to keep a leash on her hormones. There's no way she's going to fall for a pretty face, much less one she works with.

"I'm the best you'll ever have," he returns, and then he smiles.

Inside, a part of her trembles at that boastful promise because she's convinced he's right, but she's been in the cop shop long enough to be used to flirtation. So instead she cocks her hip forward and raises an eyebrow. "Those magic fingers of yours better be up to the challenge," she replied, "because I only accept the best."

 

4.

College was only a step to her ultimate goal. Despite what some of her so-called peers thought, it was not the end-all, be-all of existence.

And that didn't explain why the hell Eve Dallas was standing in the middle of a frat house during the middle of an underage drinking party. It was definitely against the rules she planned to swear to uphold and protect – but it was such a silly rule, really. She was old enough to enlist in the military – had considered joining the MP before sanity had surfaced – so why the hell couldn't she throw back a couple of brewskis?

The music is loud and it makes her head hurt, and she can't help but thing the latest synthrock is horrible. It's a fad she hopes will fade away. She considers abandoning the party, but that would be declaring defeat in her social life – she's been here less than an hour, and leaving so soon will get her never-ending ribbing from her more social roommate, Mavis.

She considers going back for a refill, but something makes her turn her head to the right, the same instincts honed through self-preservation.

And There He Is.

He's the kind of guy that makes a girl think in capital letters. He's got the face of a fallen angel, and even under the strobe lights she suspects his eyes are a stunning blue. He's dressed in airskids, jeans and a tight t-shirt, and every one of her hormones kicks into gear at the sight of the fine male specimen. But every one of those aforementioned self-preservation instincts are screaming for her to move rapidly in the opposite direction before he can make a play. She's attractive enough that turning down offers is second-nature, but she wonders if she would be able to fend off a play from this Adonis.

But he's already seen her as well, and she stands frozen like a deer in the headlights as he slides through the crowd. People are watching him, but he doesn't pay them any mind – his attention is focused solely on Dallas.

"Would you like to dance?" he asks, as he comes close enough to speak without having to scream over the blaring music. His lips are inches from her ear, and normally she would punch a guy out who dared to get that close. But he's sexy and something about his posture intrigues her, so she wordlessly gives a nod of permission, tossing her empty cup over her shoulder without looking to see where it lands.

He laughs, and raises her hand to his lips, brushes a light kiss across her knuckles. Her heart skips a beat, and suddenly the silly romances her roommate is fixated on don't seem so silly anymore. "I'm Roarke," he says.

"Dallas," she replies, and then his arm is around her waist, leading her into a darker corner. For a second she wonders if this is such a good idea, but then he starts to lead her.

And then she knows that she's right, that Roarke is the man she's going to go home with tonight, and maybe for many nights to come. Standing at the edge of the room, they slow dance while the rest of the crowd is grinding.

5.

Roarke doesn't usually need to pay for sex. Women of all stripes come when he clicks his fingers, eager to attend to his every whim.

But then he sees her at a society ball, draped on the arm of a well-to-do business associate. Her expression is thoroughly bored, and she's clearly tuning out the conversation around her, but he can't keep his eyes from returning to her, again and again. He's seen plenty of beautiful women, but there's something about this one that makes him want to know more.

He manages to make his way over during the night, under the pretense of speaking to her companion. He's always been very good with names, and he welcomes William Rengler in a friendly fashion, politely inquiring about the state of his divorce from his third wife. The woman – whose leonine looks keep drawing his eye – doesn't even look upset. Rengler, on the other hand, squirms in a satisfying way.

"And you've yet to introduce me to your lovely companion," he says, turning his eyes toward the woman.

She doesn't wait for Rengler to follow through. "I'm Dallas," she says, and her voice is surprisingly blunt.

"It's a pleasure," he says, letting a hint of Irish color his words. He kisses the back of her knuckles.

She merely regards him with a slightly raised eyebrow, indicating that she is thoroughly unimpressed. "I always go home with the man I came with," she replies, turning her back to him. The man she's with smiles at Roarke with pride.

If Roarke wasn't so pissed, he'd respect her for saying that. She's not truly mercenary; she keeps her word. Most woman would gladly dump whoever they were with – no matter what the ties were, including wedding rings – for a chance to capture Roarke's attention and possibly his bank account.

But that night, after fucking the blonde he had been able to bring home, he still sees the image of her on the back of his lids whenever he shuts his eyes. He can't get her out of his head.

Rising, he uses the Unregistered to figure out who Dallas is.

Somehow it's a disappointment to find out she's an LC, one of the top-tier ones licensed exclusively for men. She's been in the field for nearly a decade, and as he stares at her ID photo, he feels a surge of possession as he thinks about how many men have had the privilege of knowing her splendid body. Biting her lip, and looking through her recent health scans and the highly classified psych profiles, he decides he's next – and last – on that list. What Roarke wants, Roarke gets.

He waits two days before calling her. She agrees readily to meet him at his home in two days; there's very few woman he's brought there, but he wants to make love to her in his own bed.

She arrives precisely on time, dressed in plain black slacks and a white blouse. It takes him less than five minutes to have her dressed in nothing but skin.

When he slides between her legs, he feels like he's coming home. From the moans of pleasure she's making, she's at least moved somewhat by the intimacy. He uses every trick in his arsenal to make this a night she will never forget. He can buy her body, but Roarke is smart enough to realize that her heart is not for sale. And that is what makes her priceless to him – the best things in life are those that have to be won.

But Roarke never loses. Someday, Eve Dallas will belong to him alone.


End file.
